Stockholm Syndrome

Chapter 20: Crazy House

I awoke in a white room, with lights that blinded my sensitive eyes. Is this what heaven looks like? I thought to myself. My body felt weak.

Wait, my body felt. Shit. But I had swallowed a fuckton of pills. I had to be dead. I just had to be.

The steady beeping of a machine made its presence known inside of my ears. Realizing that I had enough strength to turn my head a bit, I saw the machine on wheels. I saw a medicine bag that was pumping some sort of life-sustaining liquid into my body.

Maybe I had finally gotten abducted by aliens and they were running some sort of experiment on me.

"Mr. DeLonge," I heard a female voice say, startling me. I jolted up. If she was an alien I had to act quickly. My head started pounding the second my body reached a 90-degree angle.

I felt a comforting human hand on my right shoulder, then looked up at the nurse who had come in and said my name. She definitely wasn't a life form from another planet. She gently guided my head back to the pillow.

I looked at her confusedly. Where the fuck was I? Could I still talk in heaven? Was this heaven? No, I did too much fucked up shit in my life to make it here. Maybe Hell. Or, was I stuck in Purgatory and waiting for God to make the final judgment?

Furrowing my brow, I looked at my hands. Still human. My tattoos were still there. I moved my fingers and made a couple fists before letting them hang limply.

"Where am I?" I finally choked out, feeling the very real vibrations radiate through my chest cavity. I was beginning to think that I hadn't died. Dammit.

"You are at the San Diego Psychiatric Hospital. You've been here for three days," she replied, looking at the machine that I was hooked up to and writing down some things on her clipboard.

"Why?"

Once she had written down everything she needed to, she turned to me and said, "Mr. DeLonge, you overdosed on Vicodin and had to be rushed to the hospital. Once they pumped your stomach, they sent you here to be monitored."

Once I actually comprehended what was going on, I began to panic. I was at a fucking crazy house. I heard the beeps begin to speed up on the machine next to me and I shot up in bed.

"I want to leave, right now," I began, kicking my legs over the edge of my bed. There were no windows, no remote controls or TVs. Nothing to do.

The nurse grabbed my shoulder and held me back, "I'm sorry, we can't let you go yet. The doctor has to monitor your condition. But I can tell you that since you're awake now you should be discharged pretty soon."

I scoffed at her and laid back down in bed, staring at the ceiling. Fighting with a nurse wasn't worth it. I treated it like being in jail; cooperate and they'll let you out sooner. Closing my eyes was about the only thing to do. I could always talk to myself if I had no one else. How come I didn't have any visitors? Did anyone know I was here? Who found me? How convenient that they found me, I thought. I can never just escape the pain. All I wanted was out. But I couldn't even have that.

Tears started falling as I realized that I literally attempted suicide. You read about it in the papers and see it on the news, but you never really know until you actually do it. What's worse is that if I went out that way, I'd fit in with the stereotypical "rockstar drug overdose eventually leading to death" story that has been around forever. I wonder if anyone cared about me. If they did, how come no one tried to stop me or check on me? There were so many questions.

What the fuck happened after I swallowed those pills?

*Raleigh*

I had found Tom. Cold, lifeless and passed out on the ground.